A Light Among the Darkness
by Dark Akuma Hunter
Summary: Sometimes Stiles worries about death. Derek confuses him, like always, and Scott's there to remind him why he sticks with the crazy death-trap that is the werewolves of Beacon Hills. Stiles/Scott friendship.


**Author Note: **As my first foray into Teen Wolf, writing-wise, this was not really where I expected it to go, but this is what you've got.

**A Light Among the Darkness:**

In the dark of night, lying exhausted in his bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, Stiles lamented what his life had become. Back before everything started, all he had to worry about was grades, and making sure Scott had his inhaler around for when his asthma acted up. Sure, there was crime in Beacon Hills, there always had been and there always would be, but he'd been mostly content to simply let his dad do his job unhindered.

Ever since that fateful day Stiles' life had been completely fucked up. Ever since that day, half of his being had been focused on not only the very real possibility of being _killed_, but on trying to figure out ways to keep that from happening.

During the day, it was easy to focus on the positive things. Scott didn't have asthma anymore. He was killing it at lacrosse, and Stiles himself was even getting a bit better at it, if he did say so himself. They'd made friends, even if those friends were dysfunctional werewolves, a hunter and a banshee. But no matter how much he tried, Stiles would wind up thinking about all the times they'd been injured and caught up in dangerous situations, and the dark, pessimistic voice in the back of his head whispered poisonous words to him, all _next time for sure_ and _we aren't invincible_. And it made Stiles furious, made him ball his hands into fists and wish he had that freaky werewolf healing so he could just _punch out his anger on the walls_ because he _knew_ they weren't invincible, not even the werewolves, but most of all, more than anything, Stiles was scared. He was scared because, despite the pride he took in being the only 'normal' one in the pack, he knew far too well now just how vulnerable that made him.

The werewolves might not have been invincible, but Stiles was _weak._ No metal baseball bat could make up for that. He'd been beaten up and thrown around more than he cared to count. More than anything, during his acquaintance with the wolves, Stiles had become _accustomed _to the notion of death. Deep in his heart, a part of Stiles was convinced that he'd be dead before he hit twenty one. And he was scared that that didn't scare him, he was unsettled that he wasn't afraid of dying, but of the impact it would have on everyone else.

His mind was racing, getting away from him, plunging into all the dark pathways of his imagination that hid the worst scenarios at their end. All he wanted was a chance to forget about all the fear, the anxiety and the stress, just for a time. Was it too much to ask, that just for once he could sleep without the darkness invading his dreams?

Stiles rolled onto his side, pulling the covers up high over his shoulders and fisting one hand in his pillow. He clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe, trying to think of snow and blank pages and ultimately just shutting his brain up.

If he tosses and turns throughout the entire night, it's nothing new anymore.

**oOoOo**

Before he even opens his eyes Stiles knows there's someone in his room. Almost since Day One his window has remained unlocked, and that's only backfired on him a small handful of times. Mostly it saves him the trouble of explaining unexpected visitors, or having to get up and open the window whenever someone wanted to come in. There's a soft breeze circulating the room when he wakes, cooler than the air should be and dragging icy fingertips across his face, what little of it is exposed to the room.

It didn't take more than a moment for Stiles to guess who his visitor was, either. Scott tended to text first, and the rest had the courtesy to at least close the damn window after themselves.

In the shadowy corner of the room, Derek Hale leaned against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest.

His open eyes confirm the sight and, groaning melodramatically, Stiles grumbles a muffled "Oh god, go away," into his sheets. He knows Derek can hear him just fine, and he's not in the mood for politeness. Parts of his body still ache from their last supernatural encounter and he doesn't need Derek doing the silent looming Edward Cullen thing first thing in the morning, especially on a Saturday.

Derek's eyes flash in the dim morning light, and his nostrils flare, and Stiles curses that he would pick now of all times to come check up on him because he can no doubt smell the anguish roiling around beneath his skin with those freaky werewolf senses of his. He doesn't need this right now, because no matter how much time he spends around Derek the man is highly unpredictable and he _doesn't know what he wants_ but, of course, Derek can sense all his stress too, and he rolls his eyes, though there's a tense set to his shoulders and he's still watching Stiles closely.

"Please just leave," he mutters again, shutting his eyes as tight as he can as though he could wish Derek gone with his mind alone. Deaton could probably do it. That was how druid magic worked, right?

Though he didn't hear him move – of course he didn't, he only had _human_ senses and werewolves were ridiculously light on their feet – Stiles felt a hand on his shoulder after a few moments of what Stiles might dub 'awkward silence' with anyone else. Derek's breath tickled his ear as he gave a gruff whisper of "rest". It sounded more like an order than anything else, but coming from Derek, it was something else entirely. He tried not to show his surprise, but his heart stuttered in confusion without his permission, and Derek huffed a laugh as he slipped out the window again, closing it behind him this time.

Sleep didn't usually come easy to Stiles, his mind racing at all times of the day, but something about what Derek had said seemed to mute his usual thoughts. Sourwolf had been _nice_ in his own weird, emotionally stunted way, _concerned_ even, and even if he'd never admit it Stiles warmed at the thought. Maybe he wasn't useless after all. Maybe all the risks were worth it.

He fell asleep again not long after Derek left, and his dad didn't have the heart to wake him before heading out to work.

**oOoOo**

When Stiles eventually returned to the land of the living, it was to an ache in his ankle and a warm weight next to him that he couldn't place. He ignored it, deeming it unimportant, and instead grabbed for his phone, pulling it under the covers with him. There were a couple of texts from Scott, which he also ignored, deciding he'd worry about it once he was actually up, and was surprised to notice that it was lunchtime already. Stiles never slept that late, not even after a sleepless week spent researching in the middle of a supernatural crisis.

Shaking off the strange occurrence with a shrug, Stiles wriggled out from under his covers, only to come face to face with his best friend and brother-in-all-but-blood Scott McCall.

"Holy crap!" Stiles cried out, slamming his hand against the wall in his haste to sit up. Scott was sitting on his bed, curly hair and all, eyes big and slightly apologetic. It was impossible to stay mad at Scott when he made those faces with his big doe eyes, not that he was mad in the first place. Startled, sure, a little irritated, maybe, but not mad. Stiles sighed, rubbing his head.

"What's up Scotty?" He asked instead, slipping on a smile and feigning a happiness that he never felt that soon after waking up. His heart wasn't in it though, and Scott frowned down at him.

"How are you doing Stiles?" Scott asked seriously, leaning forward and peering into Stiles' eyes as though they held all the answers to the things he couldn't sniff out.

"I'm fine," he scoffed, putting a hand on Scott's shoulder in a futile attempt to put some space between them. It wasn't even technically a lie. His ankle might have been sprained originally, but the ache now was far from the worst pain he'd been in over the last year, and it wasn't incapacitating at all. He was _fine_. But Scott was still staring and the worry in his face was so damn _heart-breaking_ even though Stiles really wasn't sure what was happening that his mouth started running off without his permission. "Seriously, I'm fine man. The bruises are all gone, I can walk fine, I'm a little weirded out because Derek was here earlier and I swear he was being _nice_ but I could also have been hallucinating and maybe I never woke up at all."

Scott smiled wryly as Stiles rambled, and he leaned back to sit with his back against the wall, but there was still this glint in his eyes that Stiles didn't understand and he still wasn't sure what Scott wanted from him.

Running out of steam Stiles slumped forward, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. There was one thing he hadn't said yet, and Scott was his best friend and he didn't keep secrets from Scott, but with everything that had happened…

"Scott, I'm tired."

Scott visibly perked up, an odd look on his expressive face.

"Tired of what Stiles?" He asked gently, resting a warm hand on Stiles' ankle. His crazy werewolf heat soothed the ache somewhat and he smiled a little. Scott always made him feel better. Maybe that's what he'd been missing. Because at night, Scott was back at his own house, or having pack meetings, and Stiles was by himself.

"Tired of fighting," he admitted with a shrug, shoulders hunched. "Tired of people getting hurt. Tired of not knowing what's coming next."

Scott whined low in his throat and his weight shifted on the mattress, until his warm weight was pressed up against Stiles' side. Stiles laughed softly, leaning into him.

"We're all tired Stiles. Even Derek, though he'd never admit it. It's crazy, how much crap has been happening, but rather than waiting in dread for whatever comes next, I think it's easier to pretend that we're home free, and just live life for a bit. Like right now. Nothing's happening at the moment, so just try not to think about it too much."

Stiles glanced up at Scott, taking in the way he seemed to really believe what he was saying. He might not have werewolf super-senses at his disposal, but he'd been dealing with Scott for more than ten years, and it wasn't hard to tell with him.

"Is it really that easy?"

"Not really," Scott admitted reluctantly, as though it physically hurt him to confess that his silver lining wasn't all that shiny after all. "But it helps when you aren't stewing by yourself." He stared pointedly at Stiles, one hand gesturing at all the books spread across his room, some borrowed from Deaton, others shady texts from the library.

"What else do you expect me to do when my best mate's all tied up in his girlfriend at all hours of the day?"

Scott whined again, a wolfish sound, and the guilt was obvious. It was like a punch to the gut, because Stiles hated making Scott sad, even when he was sort of hurt by the lack of time they'd been spending together lately.

"No, don't do that," Stiles muttered, freeing his legs from the sheets. "Not that I'm complaining, but why are you here anyway?"

Shifting to face Scott, he saw his smile turn a little sheepish, and he sighed.

"Derek may have mentioned that you seemed a little off and I thought I should check up on you."

"Damn Scotty, taking cues from Sourwolf now?" Stiles shook his head, but he couldn't muster up the energy necessary to be annoyed by that thought. "Come on then," he said as his stomach grumbled. "I need food. We can watch a movie or something since you're here."

Scott's grin was infectious, and he dashed down the stairs while Stiles collected himself, finding some new clothes and shuffling to the bathroom to get dressed and brush his teeth. His heart felt lighter already. It really had been too long since he and Scott hung out without the rest of the pack hanging around for one reason or another.

When Stiles made it downstairs _The Dark Knight Rises_ was lying on the coffee table in the living room and Scott had his head in the cupboard. He laughed, and smiled properly, because it was definitely a good time for Batman right now and Scott knew him far too well.

Slipping into the kitchen Stiles pulled a packet of popcorn from his secret stash – where he kept all the food his dad shouldn't be eating – and shoved it in the microwave, grabbing Scott's attention. He grabbed a bowl of cereal for himself, because for once he really wanted breakfast for his breakfast, even if his breakfast was lunch and they were watching a movie.

They turned Batman into a movie marathon, and though Stiles let Scott pick every movie he was pretty sure Scott was just picking things he knew Stiles loved, and it was the best afternoon he'd had in months. The long weeks of late nights and research till three in the morning and running around the reserve caught up with him in the end though, and he fell asleep again on the sofa late in the afternoon, head on Scott's shoulder.

The Sheriff found them curled up on the sofa when he got back from his shift, and aside from stealing a handful of popcorn from Scott, who was still awake and not really paying attention to much of anything, with a look just daring him to tell Stiles what had happened, all he did was smile and mutter a soft thank you to his son's best friend.

Stiles couldn't even complain when he woke up to find that his dad had cooked that night, because he'd actually stuck to the rigid restrictions Stiles usually enforced on him.

Things were looking up again.

**oOoOo**

Stiles still had bad nights, but they were less now. Scott made more of an effort to spend time with him, and the pack tried to get a bit more involved too. They were an awkward bunch, and Derek still didn't know how to smile without it seeming like he wanted to kill you, but Stiles loved it. They were all he could really ask for.


End file.
